When I was 5 years old, I wanted to be an artist. One day, people would want all my famous pictures.

I pictured myself at 18 as being 5’5” (because my mom was), having long, platinum blonde hair (because that’s what my hair used to be) and resembling, for the most part, a Barbie doll (because I had just assumed Barbies were the norm when it came to body image). I would have a boyfriend and would get married when I was 20 (because that seemed old at the time...yikes). My mom told me that I would hate her. That we would fight a lot like most teenage girls do with their mothers. That I wouldn’t be able to wait to go to college. That I would be overjoyed to leave home.

Only one of those things is somewhat right: I’m close to 5’5”. Other than that, the person I am today resembles little to nothing what I had pictured I'd be like when I was 5. Is it bad, then, that I don’t meet the expectations my younger self set?

I look back at pictures of myself and wonder if the little girl in those photos would be happy with where I am today. I wonder, if she could’ve known where I am now, would she still have made all the same choices? Would she want to be where I am now? Or would she have done things differently?

Well, I guess she would be a little disappointed that I didn’t turn out to be quite the artist she thought I would. But she also wanted to be a scientist when she was 7. An archaeologist when she was 11. An architect when she was 13. And an interior designer when she was 15. She changed her mind about a lot of things. Her favorite color wavered from pink to blue as her favorite number moved up two digits from 5 to 7. Decisions like these were difficult indeed, and her preferences were constantly changing, like they often do when we're so young. Clearly, I wanted to be a lot of different things when I grew up, but there was one goal that remained steadfast through my years of career crises. I always knew that whatever I was, I just wanted to be happy.

I think a lot about my life and the choices I’ve made so far throughout it. A friend of mine once theorized that maybe there’s an alternate dimension that exists for each choice we never made: that there’s a universe where I didn’t choose to start running, go to college, become a writer. And then I wonder if these were the right decisions to make. What if there was a universe that existed where I made different choices and was even happier? What if I could have done something differently and life would be even better?

But then I reflect on where I am now. I look at the little girl in the pictures. I think about the only thing she’s ever truly wanted in this world (OK — other than a lifetime supply of chocolate chip cookies). Happiness.

Is my life perfect? No. Far from it. Do I have regrets? Of course. But I wouldn’t take any of it back. As I reflect on where I am now, I am oddly pleased by all the regrets I have. Every mistake I’ve ever made somehow led me to where I am now. Is it utter bliss, complete joy and total happiness? No. But I am happy, so I’m OK with my semi-perfect life being only semi-perfect.

Maybe I was right — maybe I was meant to be an artist. Maybe I was never even meant to be a writer. Maybe my friend was right — maybe there's an alternate universe somewhere where I made all the right choices and my life is even better than it is now. Utter bliss. Complete joy. Total happiness.

But maybe there isn’t such a place.

The point is that instead of wondering if there's a better world, I’m just going to live it up in this one. In other words, instead of wondering about who I was — something I no longer have control over — I’m going to focus on who I amand who I willbecome. My life is not pure bliss. But my life is good and I am happy. And I’m working every day to get better. To be better. To make that five-year-old aspiring artist proud of who she's become.

And I think she would be.